


Wire Cutter

by orphan_account



Category: AFI
Genre: But Davey takes it up the ass too, Carpe Diem, Domestic, Established Relationship, Jade is a big huge fucking bottom, M/M, Technology, crash love era, mortality anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Davey conducts a series of passive aggressive attacks on Jade’s television addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wire Cutter

**Author's Note:**

> I think this story is a manifestation of the recent wire-cutting urges I have been having. But since I can’t exactly go around smashing screens and vandalizing electronic property, Davey (and Moz?) can do it for me. Within the ENTIRELY FICTIONAL constraints of this story. You hear that? This isn’t real. I don’t own them, and it never happened.Spot the Moz quotes. It's more self-pitying than Waldo.

I was about to settle into the familiar comfort of an evening marathon of Law and Order: SVU reruns from third season, when some person wearing a Davey Havok suit walked in the living room with one of my guitars. I opened my mouth to call for the real Dave, who was hiding somewhere else in the house so he wouldn’t have to hear the glorious sounds of detectives Olivia Benson and Eliot Stabler taking pedophiles to court, when I realized that the guitar-stealer wasn’t actually someone pretending to be Davey. It was Davey. Or at least I thought it was. 

He walked up to me, shit-eating grin on his face like he was about to break something. 

“Don’t touch that, it’s expensive,” I said, prying Davey’s finger from the neck of my gold Les  
Paul with the Crash Love symbol emblazoned on it. Not my favorite guitar, but not one I wanted his dirty, pretty, incompetent hands all over. 

“What if I want to learn?” He asked defensively, clutching the guitar against his chest, keeping it out of my reach. I stared at him, attempting to recognize my musically challenged and guitar-fearing Davey in this bizarre stranger. The Les Paul hummed quietly, that all-string chime guitars make when people who don’t know how to play them touch them the _wrong way._ It sounded like it was calling for help, so I swiped again. Davey was waiting for it, and jerked just out of reach.

“Dave, I’ve known you for more than twenty years, and _never_ have you expressed any interest whatsoever in learning how to play guitar. In fact, you’ve shown mild disdain, if anything,” I said, crossing my arms and narrowing my eyes at him.

He glared at me, his mouth kind of pouting in a way that all but begged for a fist to come crashing into its archer’s bow perfection. “Geez Jade. Can’t a guy change his mind?” 

I suspiciously reached out and took his chin in my index finger and thumb, tilting his head back and examining the lines of his jaw, just to ensure this wasn’t some other short person in a Davey Mask with a Morrissey wig on. “What has gotten into you?” 

He sighed, still holding two thousand dollars in his awkward grip, and plopped down on the couch next to me, where I was sitting stiffly, remote in my lap. 

“I’ve had my face dragged in fifteen miles of shit, and I do not like it,” he mumbled, dropping his head onto my shoulder. I inhaled, and the air around his hair smelled like him, like his shampoo and his hair gel and his soft, underlying Davey-smell. So it was probably him, and not some fan dressed up in shocking likeness to the real thing so that he could coerce me into free guitar lessons. Only Davey smelled like Davey; it was too nuanced to replicate. Also, only Davey thought that Morrissey quotes were reasonable answers to any and all questions, regardless of their relevancy or pertinence. 

I wormed my arm around him, finally convinced that he wasn’t an impostor. “Is this some elaborate plan to get me to cuddle with you? Is that what you want?” I asked, sneaking my hand up under his shirt and touching warm skin, index finger tracing along the waistband of his pants. 

He huffed dramatically, the force of it messing up my hair. “Ugh. Okay. You figured me out. I have ulterior motives, and this is all a highly detailed ploy. I still don’t give a shit about instruments, and would rather stay blissfully ignorant in my state of finding you brilliant and magical seeing as you posses this talent far beyond my imagined capabilities,” Davey purred. 

“Good. I was worried you would stop thinking I was a musical genius if you learned guitar,” I mumbled through a mouthful of his hair, which tasted the way Davey’s hair always tasted. “I have to ask, what’s this grand ulterior motive?” 

“It’s a secret,” he said, wiggling closer to me and almost kicking my Les-Paul off the couch in the process.

“DAVE! Put the guitar on the floor, please,” I begged, nails digging into his thigh. He pushed the guitar away, then scooted to the other end of the couch. 

“You care too much about material possessions, Jade. I think you need to sell all your shit and move to a shack in Tibet,” He grinned, thinking he was cute because he was being self-consciously hypocritical, because he’s the guy with ten tons of Sephora and Mac makeup he never wears anymore clogging up our closet that’s otherwise full of eight billion designer jackets which all look the same that he buys on weekly basis just so he has one in every shade of every color. He thinks it makes him look smart when he does that. Act self-consciously hypocritical, I mean, not buy jackets. 

“Over my dead body,” I said, shoving him off of me. “I intend to die in a throne of inane consumer items. Now tell me why you pretended to care about guitar.” 

“Is it really that hard to believe I wanted you to teach me?!How did you know I was full of shit?” he asked, avoiding my question and drawing his knees up to his chest. He looked beautiful there at the opposite end of the couch, bright-eyed and young even though his birthday was weeks ago and he cried when someone mentioned he could now round himself up to forty now. 

“Because I know you,” I told him. 

He unfurled from his ball onto all fours, creeping a few inches closer to me. I leaned a few inches back, making him work for it. 

“You feel like you know me?” He asked. 

I swallowed, gaze unwavering and dark. “I do.” 

“I feel like I know you, too.” He didn’t touch me with his hands, but his lips were close enough to kiss, head tilting close to mine, but holding back like he wasn’t sure. 

I knew this game, and played along. “You...you do?” 

“Yeah. Yeah I...I never thought I could know someone, not really. That knowing someone was impossible, because everything you thought you knew was just your own invention, what you wanted to see...but I was wrong. Because I know you. And I swore, if I ever _really_ knew someone, that they would be the person I loved,” his voice was husky, the breath of it warm and on my lips. 

 

“And...do you love me?” My own voice sounded scared, hoarse like it used to get when we’d stay up all night talking about death, like it was a concept instead of a very possible reality I contemplated every day after the classes I skipped, in those days before Davey and I were friends. My eyes darted to his lips. 

He laughed hollowly, in this tragic way. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine as he sat back down on his haunches. “I...I’m sorry. But yeah, yeah I do.” 

“Don’t be sorry, Dave,” I said quietly, and then I kissed him, a hand behind his neck and my tongue touching his blindly, hungrily, like two people fumbling towards each other in the dark, hands outstretched. 

He pulled away, mouth wet. “But...but what if it ruins our friendship? I can’t lose you as a friend.” 

“It won’t,” I swore to him.

“But it might... jeopardize the band...” Davey murmured, the words airy and frayed in the air shared between our kisses. I ran my fingers through his hair, mussing up and breaking him apart under my hands, marveling at how fucking unfair to the rest of the world it was that I was still so scarycrazy in love with him, even after twenty something years of never teaching him guitar.

I pushed him onto his back, lowering my body over his and loving the way his eyes were half lidded and so dark, and way he put his hands over his head so I could pull his shirt off and kiss his collarbones. As I sat back on my heels to take off my own shirt, he grabbed the remote from where it had sunk, forgotten into the couch cushions, and tossed it none to gently across the room.

~*~

The next day, I was ready to sit down and watch the latest Tivoed episode of Entourage with a glass or orange juice and some hand weights, but I couldn’t find the fucking remote. I tore the sofa up cushion by cushion. I found lots of lint, pet hair, a nickel, two pennies, and a Hello-Kitty mirror compact that was definitely not mine. But no remote. I had the faintest memory of Davey throwing it somewhere obliquely before I pushed his knees to his chest and fucked him into the couch, but my memories of the night prior were a little foggy. 

“Dave?” I called, standing in my wife beater and my fleecy wristbands, ready to fucking work out already. “Dave, have you seen the remote?” 

“What?!” He shrieked from the kitchen, where he was making a smoothie eat after the gym. “You know I never touch the TV, Jade. If I do, I’ll--”

“Spontaneously combust, I know,” I quipped, irritated. “I thought you put it somewhere when we fucked last night.” 

“Have you checked the couch?” he called back, voice already distant and unconcerned, because he didn’t give a shit about the TV like I did. I rolled my eyes, not even bothering to shout _of course I looked in the couch_ back at him. Crawling around on my hands and knees, I looked under the entertainment center, inside the CD cabinet, on top of the stereo, and under the coffee table, choking on dust all the while. 

Davey bustled in, his running shoes and a water bottle in hand. “I’ll be back in an hour, bye,” He told me, bending down and kissing me on the top of the head. I felt like a dog beneath his condescending lips, so I shook my head to rid myself of their patronizing pressure. 

“I need the remote. I want to work out,” I whined, pointing to the couch where my hand weights were sitting, neglected and lonely like two puppies after christmas morning, once the novelty of pets had worn off and the kids were more into their toy trucks and dolls and zeppelins. 

Davey stared at me, the dark arch of his eyebrow quirked up on one side. “And do tell me, love, how the remote and working out are related?” 

I glared at him, hating when he imposed his ridiculous standards upon me. “I like to watch TV and lift. To distract myself. Because I don’t get off on torture like you do,” I mumbled with unsugarcoated clarity, checking behind the potted succulent plant just in case the remote had somehow slithered behind there to die. 

“Maybe you should just come to the gym with me instead,” Davey grinned brilliantly, and I smacked his calf, because it was the only part of him within reach and because he should know better than to even invite me. 

“I hate going to the gym with you, you spend the whole time correcting my posture and telling me to increase the incline on the treadmill. Also, it makes me nervous to watch you run yourself to the point of near keel-over.” 

He chewed on his nail, eyes getting dark and wistful as he gazed out the window, most likely imagining the satisfaction of almost dying every time he hopped on an elliptical. Davey was an extremist in most things he did, and the gym was not an exception. He would disappear there for three hours every afternoon, or in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep (24 Hour Fitness should ban people like him, like how they cut off drunks at bars when they’ve had too much.) I, on the other hand, like to watch TV on the couch and either lift my leg like Olivia Newton John sans leotard and neon legwarmers, or lift hand weights. I break a sweat, I swear. It’s just much easier with an Entourage cheering me on. 

“Sometimes I wonder why I like you so much when you’re a perfect example of everything that’s wrong with the world.” He got down to my level on the carpet, so I could see his eyes and know that even though he was being a royal asshole, he was half kidding, and other half he at least meant in an affectionate way. I still wanted to hit him, but that was a somewhat constant affliction. 

“Sometimes I wonder why I like you when you’re quite possibly the most arrogant bastard I’ve ever met. Not to mention hypocritical, oh superior user of automobiles and lamps. Oh superior addict of _ipods and laptops_ , which are so much less troublesome than--”

“I’m a ghost, and as far as I know I haven’t even died,” Davey-Moz, or Forever-Moz-quoting Davey said cryptically. “But I think you’re worse,” he had that impossible, self-inflated grin on again, and I rolled my eyes. 

“Well, Saint Crucified Morrissey, the remote still has not made its location clear to me.” 

“I think you can manage without the TV,” Davey said after he kissed me again, this time on the lips. Then he stood, grabbed his shit, and waved as he glided out the door. 

I sat on the carpet, feeling sorry for myself. Davey was a wonderful person, but he thought he was vastly better than everyone else, including me. This was, of course, only on the days when he didn’t think that he was vastly worse than everyone else, especially me, and spent hours wallowing in bed wailing about how he was an utter failure and waste of space and he couldn’t understand how a perfect specimen bothered with loathsome scum. I picked lint off the carpet, briefly wondering if currently Self Righteous Technology Vigilante Moz Davey had actually plotted against me, and deliberately _misplaced the remote_ just to sabotage my work out, because it wasn’t a work out that flirted with self-destruction, which he thought was as important to everyone as it was to him. 

I didn’t give this very much thought, however, because as I stared miserably at my temporarily inaccessible box of glittering electronic wonder, I remembered with a jolt of excitement that it was possible to turn the TV on manually. I pressed the power button on the screen, wondering how on earth I could have gotten so pathetically reliant upon the remote that I forgot the good old fashioned way to watch shows. 

A few hours later, Davey let himself in the front door, cheeks still slightly flushed from his cardio, hair stiffened into little whorls from dried sweat. He found me the exact same place he left me, curled up on the floor like a house pet or some little kid watching his Saturday morning cartoons. 

“How was your work out?” he asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously like he _knew._ If I had a tail, I would have tucked it behind my hind legs as he scrutinized me. 

“Uh...” 

“Did you find the remote?!” He asked incredulously, glaring at the TV in such a violent fashion I would not have been surprised if the screen, instead of Davey, spontaneously combusted in the midst of their confrontation. 

“No, I just turned it on manually,” I explained, pointing to the screen where Adrian Grenier was looking all charming and dark haired. 

Davey stared blankly at me, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t understand how to manually turn on a TV, or if it was just because he was so disappointed by the fact he was living with the perfect example of everything that’s wrong with the world. It was probably the latter, but I added, “You know. I pushed the button at the bottom of the screen,” just to clarify. 

He looked mournful, and then gazed at my forgotten hand weights. “I see you _didn’t_ work out...” There was almost a _tsk tsk_ on his tongue, and I desperately wanted to throw my arms up and scream _what on earth made you decide to become the self-appointed technology and exercise police, oh superior treadmill-dependent?!_ but I was cut short by his sweaty weight barreling me over onto the carpet. The breath burst out of me in a _whoosh,_ and I coughed lamely. 

“I know how to turn on a TV, motherfucker, just because I don’t _do it very often_ doesn’t mean I don’t _know shit..._ ” he growled, voice trailing off into my neck. He smelled like salt and deodorant and Davey, and I sighed, hands flying to his biceps to steady myself, dizzied by his proximity and scent even though I should have been used to that by now. Without looking up, he reached over and turned the TV off, demonstrating his complete capability to operate the machine manually, despite his prior appearance of idiocy. 

His mouth attacked my neck, and it kind of tickled so I made a high pitched noise, trying to wriggle away and out from underneath him. I should have known this would happen. Davey and I certainly didn’t fuck every day, and rarely did we do so two days in a row, _unless_ I fucked him. Regardless of how exhausted either of us were, if I ever topped Davey, I was _guaranteed_ to get it up the ass no later than 24 hours after the original fuckage. Apparently 24 hours was the maximum amount of time Davey could live with the image of himself under me and stuffed with cock. It messed with his self concept, somehow. 

He rolled me over onto my stomach,then yanked my hips up and my boxers down, so my ass was in the air and I was holding myself up on shaking arms. The air was cold on my newly hard dick.   
“Since you didn’t get to work out, I guess I have to do it for you,” Davey hissed through his teeth, and I grinned in spite of how exploited I felt in this position. I heard him spit in his hand, and braced myself for the weight of him slamming into my narrow back, my forearms twitching and tense. 

~*~

The next morning, the button to manually turn on the TV was mysteriously broken. 

I woke up late, feeling a distinct scratchiness in my throat that usually meant I was coming down with the inevitable first cold of the winter. Coughing, I stumbled down the stairs, wanting nothing more than some French roast with 2% milk and the new episode of 30 Rock. 

Remote still missing, I went straight for the manual power button, shivery in my faded red Hugh Hefner robe. Nothing happened. I stared at it a long time, running my sleepy index finger over it again and again wondering why the fuck it wouldn’t just press in like is usually did. I blinked through the bleariness of half-waking, mouth still sour and unsoothed by the soon-to-be-finished coffee brewing in the kitchen. I finally bent over to peer at it. The stupid fucking thing was not going in because it _was in_. Lodged in, stuck, like someone held a flame to it or something and melted the fucker into place. 

Someone. _Davey_. 

_“Jesus fucking Christ,”_ I muttered in combined disbelief and awe. Davey Havok, extremist, hypocrite, Moz impersonating _technology police_ broke my _television set_. 

“Dave!” I bellowed, or, attempted to bellow. My bellowing abilities were severely diminished due to it being morning and me having a sore throat, so my intended bellow emerged as more of a creaky, puberty-type hybrid of growling and squeaking. I cleared my throat, and tried again, “Dave!” 

“God you sound pitiful,” he said, padding downstairs with his _evil, forsaken_ laptop under his arm. “Do you need some tea?” 

“No, I need some _30 Rock!_ ” I squeaked. 

“Is that some kind of painkiller?” He asked, chewing on his bottom lip. 

I nearly imploded. “NO! Dave, did you _melt the power button on the TV?_ Because that’s fucking ridiculous. Why do you care if I watch TV or not?! I pay for the cable! And it’s not like it affects you, you don’t have to watch it! It’s my fucking prerogative, and even if you _did_ have a good reason to discourage the habit, you should have just _talked to me about it_ instead of _fucking up the button so it was too misshapen to work!_ ” This all came out as a mess of shouting and rasping and squeaking. I think my voice may have even cut out entirely a few times. I kept my face angry, however, so he wouldn’t question whether or not I was being serious. 

“Personally, I thought my methods were somewhat creative.” 

“Oh really? Because where I’m from, we call that _passive aggression._ ” 

“Jade, we’re from the same hometown.” 

“Fuck! Dave, that’s not the point. You _broke_ my TV instead of _talking to me._ ” 

He sighed, walking over to the couch and sitting upon it, crossing his legs in front of him and setting him, _heaven forbid_ , laptop down. This was the position he got into when he was about to lecture me on something, so I braced my self for the Moz quotes to come cascading out of him. “I was trying to _show_ , rather than tell,” was his brilliant rebuttal. 

“Life’s not fiction!” 

“Yes it is!” He said incredulously, eyes widening like I’d just spoken blasphemy. I opened my mouth to scream-squeak some more, then closed it and took a deep breath, remembering my audience and how he wasn’t exactly the type of guy you reason with. 

“Okay. Whatever. I would still rather prefer, as someone who lives with you, to _be told_ what pisses you off so that I can make changes accordingly, or at least make a case for myself before you go around _melting things_.” 

“I wanted you to realize how addicted you are! how second nature it is! How _unnecessary!_ How much time you spend staring at that despicable thing. If I just told you it pissed me off, it would seem like my problem instead of the root of all evil,” he explained. I had this terrifying moment where I understood him, which was always a bad thing because anyone else who listened to that speech would rightfully deem him crazy. But here I was, the victim of his Vigilante Attacks in the Name of All That is Wholesome and Screen Free (Except for Laptops, Apparently) _actually understanding why he did what he did_. Fortunately, it was just a moment, and then I was back to being pissed off.

“Watching TV is _not the root of all evil_. I, unlike you, do not feel the need to be _perfect_. Maybe it’s not the best use of my time but I’m a very successful musician! I can spend my time how I want to! Watching TV is something I _like to do_ , to _unwind_ and stuff. Lots of people do it.” 

“Lots of _stupid people_. Jade, you used to read more books than me! You used to write more music than we knew what to do with...but now you watch _Unknown Pregnancy,”_ Davey explained, looking dismayed. 

_“I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant_. And I don’t watch that,” I defended myself sulkily. “But even if I did, that would be my decision. If doesn’t affect you.” 

His pale hands gripped the couch cushions so tight that his knuckles got even paler. His eyebrows were threatening to take off. “How can you say it _doesn’t affect me?_ Jade, do you realize how sad it makes me that you’d rather stare at a TV screen than at me?” 

This was too much. I should have known that this was somehow related to his vanity. I stared dumbstruck at him, and he continued. “I mean, as uninterested as I am, I would rather you teach me guitar than watch TV. I would rather you do _anything_ with me. Go to the gym. Go on a walk. Bake a cake. _Fuck me_. The TV isn’t real ! But I am. And I’m old, and dying, like you, and when you’re on your death bed, I want you to remember all the walks we took and cakes we baked and times we came rather than all the times we _could have,_ but you were too busy not knowing you were pregnant.” 

My eyes had been locked on him, but I had to look away. He was making too much sense, and he was too bright to look at, like the sun. Enormous and painful and necessary to my existence. I sighed, looked back to the sun. “Well, I must admit that was one of your better monologues.” 

“I just want to spend time with you,” He said, looking cute because he knew he’d won, and he had me. The fucker, with all of his unbaked cakes and unstrolled miles. 

“I do watch too much TV,” I admitted glumly. “But at the same time, you spend to much time at the gym. And I feel the same way about it, bummed that you’re there instead of with me, and destroying instead of creating,” I argued. I watched him internally protest, then think about it. 

“That’s different.” He didn’t sound entirely sure. 

“No it’s not. It’s technology and time, same bullshit, Dave.” 

I watched him fight the battle inside his head, and eventually collapse. 

“Ugh, you’re right,” he sighed, flopping down on the couch and holding out his arms expectantly. “Come lie on top of me.” 

I relented, curling up on top of him and settling my head against his chest. He threaded his fingers through my hair, taking a handful of it and tugging idly.“My poor hoarse Jade, with his broken TV,” he sighed. “Wait until he sees that not only did I melt the power button, I also snipped the cable wire...” 

Jerking my head up, I glared at him with an open mouth. “ _You did not._ ” I squeaked. 

“Just kidding,” He grinned cheekily. I bit him. 

“I promise I’ll cut down on my TV time if you cut down on your gym time,” I said, offering an uneasy peace treaty. He huffed; I knew it was hard for him to compromise on the gym because it was about a lot more than just time and technology. The gym was tied into his entire self concept, along with self-destruction and taking me up the ass. But still, fair was fair. 

“Deal,” he said reluctantly. “If you give me blowjobs when I want to go there at two am. You gotta use incentive to keep me at home. If you noticed, I was trying to implement positive reinforcement every time I hindered your television viewing. You know, with orgasms.” 

I knew enough from my college degree (which he did not have, by the way) that he was misusing the psychological concept of positive reinforcement, and that I was far too complex an individual to be swayed by mere classical conditioning, but it didn’t matter. I got laid twice, and I was always happy about that, whether or not it was reinforcing good habits or whatever. 

“I’ll suck you off whenever you want me to,” I assured him, propping myself up onto my elbows so I could gaze down at the sun, his dark eyes still crusted with sleep, face lined in such a perfect way that he looked not quite older, just smarter, even though he’d been thirty six for an entire month now. I kissed the creases at the corner of his eye, and he squirmed, stubble rasping against my throat. 

“Did you know that when normal people want something, they ask?” I told him, lips still against skin. 

“I am not, and never have been, normal,” he answered. 

“You’re right, and I do kind of like that about you,” I admitted, though it was a gross understatement that was actually code for _I am completely and singularly devoted to and transformed by and adoring of how terribly bizarre and indescribable you are_ , but I can only tell him that so many times before his head gets so big it explodes. 

“I do have to ask,” I mumbled, settling back down so my head was nestled against his sternum, legs a tangle between his. “Where on earth did you hide the remote?! I looked everywhere for it.” 

“Where the grotesquely lonely meet and grotesquely lonely, and whisper,” was Moz-Davey’s answer. It meant _I’ll never tell, and you shouldn’t care because we have cakes to bake._ I gave up. 

“Hey Dave?”

“Yes?” 

“Be my dearest love?” I quoted. His mouth was in my hair, but I felt it smile. 

“But...but what if it ruins our friendship?” his tone was quiet, and young. 

“...you’ve got to trust me on this one Dave. I think it will work out fine,” I said in my scratchy sick voice, swallowing. 

He sighed, rustling underneath me. “I don’t know.”

“Do you love me back?” I asked carefully, sounding terrified like my whole world depended on it, my whole life from this second and here on out hanging on this one answer to this one question. 

Davey cleared his throat and whispered “My dearest love, You are the only one.” 

My stomach twisted like it was the first time he had ever said it to me, like I hadn’t gotten used to if after all these years of having him profess variations on the same theme. My hands tightened on either side of his chest, fingers slatting naturally against the well learned topography of his ribcage. “Well then, it seems we’re on the same page,” I told him. 

His voice was as hoarse as mine. “But...what if it jeopardizes the band?” 

“Something tells me they won’t care. That it will make us even better.” 

Things were quiet. Usually at this point, we kissed and fucked, the game over and replaced with the incredible, detailed knowledge of each other’s bodies that came from years of kissing and fucking. But this time, Davey still hesitated, stiff underneath me, heart beating so swiftly I could feel it’s rabbit-frantic _thump_ echoing through my own body. 

“Dave?” 

“What if we die?” He whispered. I hadn’t heard his voice sound so reedy in years, this genuine fear making it a translucent thing, lifting on the air like dandelion cotton. I was silent for a moment, thinking of all the time we had left to bake and walk together and come inside the other, and knowing that it was not, and never had been, enough. 

I thought for the right thing to say, and eventually squeaked out a weary, “Yes, one day I will close my eyes forever. But.” 

And then, Davey forced my jaw to his and kissed me so deliberately it was more of an assault than a kiss, his tongue forcing it’s way inside me, his hands tearing at my back and pulling me apart, opening me up. Davey clawed and broke and shattered and begged the same of me, kisses so wet and breath-stealing I was sobbing against him, moved by how scarycrazy in love he still was with me, how badly he wanted me, which was fucking bad if it was the mirror of my own, as I trusted. I snarled and bit and tore at him, feeling forever pressed for time as the water ground the stone. My bones rendered asunder, I knew Davey was thinking _but. But I will see you in far off places_. And knowing it wasn’t enough, but it was all we could try for.


End file.
